Saturday, July 30, 4 S.E.

  Aylar pulled herself to her feet with difficulty, her mind still echoing with the memories of the first arch. A child, a betrayal, a dark future for Dawnhaven, leading it toward the path to ruin—because of her. Because she had been too weak to make the better choice, not just for the City, but for her own marriage.

  She turned her gaze toward her companions, looking them over as she drew herself from her fugue. The vision had hit them all differently—with varying levels of impact.

  Synthra appeared only mildly off-kilter, and there was a nervousness to her gaze as she looked at Aylar and then looked away with a faint blush. The love they’d shared in the vision, the ease of it, the intimacy; it had burned itself in Aylar’s mind as well, and she could only imagine the confusion the other woman was feeling. Same-sex relations on Altera were a casual indulgence, rarely judged, but never seen as more than a means of pleasure and expression.

  Creating new life was as much a duty as it was a privilege, and in a world beset by monsters and nightmares barely held at bay, every new life was imperative. Indulgence was permitted, and yet Aylar and Synthra had found true love in that vision—one shared with the man that had been called the Archon-King.

  Her gaze drifted to Leonidas at that thought, and she took him in quietly.

  The [Terran Cataclysm], the so-named Archon-King, looked shaken.

  He stood with his gaze averted from them all, positioned before the second arch in tacit readiness, with his blade braced point-down before him and his armored hands gripping it like it were a lifeline. His blue eyes, normally so determined, were rife with conflict—Aylar could see it from where she stood, so much closer than any of the others.

  No mana or Psi roiled around him, but there was a disturbance to his usually confident manner, and she saw the way he gritted his teeth; the subtle lock of his jaw, the tension at his temples, the way he stared at the archway in a mix of dread and desire for escape. The vision had shaken him, perhaps more than it had shaken any of them. Leonidas had always seemed indomitable to her—but in that moment, she was reminded how young he was, how young they all were.

  Her hand went to her stomach again, and she glanced down at the absent bump. Her child, their child, merely a fragment of a potential future—yet she missed it already, with enough heartache that her eyes stung to contemplate it.

  If that was just the first test, what horror awaits us in the second?

  Aylar knew now why the test was given such a massive window to complete: the trauma of the first exam had rattled her entire party, and even Bardulf was not cracking jokes, standing apart from them all and staring at the floor with a look of distant consideration. Parnym was no better—the Mender’s gaze locked on the murals above as if they held answers only he could read.

  The arch had affected them all differently, some more than others, when considering herself and Leonidas, even Synthra, but it had affected them all. They had lived a decade together in those memories: a decade of love, friendship, blood, and failure. It felt so real—and the distance from reality it represented only made it that much harder to bear, like a life they’d never had the chance to enjoy, nor correct for the better.

  The Princess drew a breath and forced her hands away from her stomach.

  It wasn’t real. It could be, if we choose wrong, but it doesn’t have to be.

  She hesitated for a moment as she considered that, and then collected her Alteran longsword from the floor, peering down at the slight curvature of the steel near its tip. She had already learned what to avoid from the arch, and that was a priceless gift.

  Not just a Warlord, not just a Husband. If he stands with me, he will be a King.

  The vision was a warning, she decided. A gift. She had to believe that.

  Aylar’s hand tightened on the hilt of her weapon, and she cleared her throat, looking around at them all and opening her mouth, only to close it a moment later.

  Her [Heroine’s Will] flared to life, but the effect felt muted. It could protect her from pain and trauma, even fear and horror, but this? This was something different. It was soul-deep.

  Finally, she took another breath and firmed her resolve by force.

  They couldn’t falter now. Not here. Not yet.

  “Everyone,” she called, her voice cracking only barely. “I know you are troubled. I… I am, too, but we cannot be dissuaded. These tests are designed to push us, to examine the mettle of those that partake, and determine who is made of the sternest material. We cannot afford to falter here.”

  Her companions turned to look at her when she spoke, one by one.

  All of them except Leonidas, who stared resolutely at the second arch.

  “I know I am asking you to undertake a great burden, but we do not have the luxury of the rest the timer would normally afford us. We must complete the trials and return to Dawnhaven before Braedon has a chance to do irreversible damage to the Thronehold. I need you. All of you. Will you stand with me again?”

  Silence met her words, louder than any roar or chant, and it was Synthra that finally broke it after it lingered.

  “I am,” the Sorceress said quietly, her normally proud and outspoken voice dimmed by what she had experienced. “Whatever else, I am. We saw a possible future, one of many, one of multitudes. I—I will not be cowed by a mere possibility. I will not be turned aside by potential.”

  Bardulf roused at Synthra’s words, and he nodded in kind, his boisterous manner dulled but not destroyed.

  “I agree,” he said in a more reserved, but still barely jovial tone. “I will not abandon such a fine saga before it is finished. I am with you, Aylar!”

  “...me, too,” Parnym said at the last, quietly. “If we can learn how to prevent futures like those, then it’s worth this—this horrible feeling. I’m with you, Princess.”

  Aylar nodded to them in thanks, her heart warming for their support, and then turned to Leonidas.

  He alone had not spoken.

  He alone had not moved.

  Carefully, measuring each step, Aylar approached him; her armored footfalls echoing with cringe-inducing volume inside the chamber until she came to a halt beside him.

  “Leonidas?” she asked softly, hating her own nerves, hating her own fear.

  The Black Knight closed his eyes at her approach, and his jaw locked.

  “Leonidas,” Aylar said softly, still, reaching out tentatively to touch his arm. She had forgotten how massive he was in his warplate. “Look at me. Please.”

  The Terran shuddered at her words, and then slowly, so terribly slowly, he turned to look at her—his blue eyes tortured, riven by anguish that went far, far deeper than just a simple vision.

  Elatra, she realized immediately, her heart thundering in her chest. It must remind him vividly of his failures there, too. I didn’t realize.

  Something Ceruviel had said to her returned in that moment, vivid and almost morbid in its prophetic pronouncement:

  “{That boy could be the father of us all, if intensity of experience equated to years.}”

  Aylar took another breath and spoke again.

  “Leonidas, it wasn’t real,” she said gently, the words sounding hollow to her own ears. “It wasn’t the truth. It was—it was a possibility. Nothing more. We can prevent it, now. We are forearmed, and—”

  “I know,” he said simply, cutting her off. “I know what you’re going to say. It doesn’t matter, Aylar. I know, but it doesn’t change how I feel. Elatra wasn’t real either, and yet… and yet…”

  The Black Knight closed his eyes again, shook his head, and collected his helmet from the floor—slamming it into place.

  “...let’s get this over with,” he said simply. “No more talking. Let’s get it done.”

  Aylar opened her mouth and then closed it, turning to look for Synthra, who approached slowly at her beseeching gaze. The Sorceress looked from her to Leonidas, and her right hand curled into a fist over her heart.

  “Achilles?” she asked tentatively, seemingly as nervous as Aylar. “Are you well?”

  Silence was the only reply the Sorceress received, and the Archon lifted his sword, resting it on his pauldron as he straightened.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “Let’s get it done,” he said again, his voice harsher, more brittle.

  Bardulf and Parnym joined them then, and Aylar’s glance for aid directed at the other two men was answered by a grave shake of the head—from both of them. They seemed to understand something she didn’t, and judging by Synthra’s glance of confusion at the pair, and then to Aylar, the Sorceress didn’t quite grasp it either.

  A thing of men, perhaps. I will not pretend to understand their minds.

  Aylar took a breath and nodded in acceptance, choosing to trust Bardulf and Parnym as she turned to the second arch.

  “Proctor,” she said to Primus, who was standing near the arch with eerie, timeless patience. “We are ready to proceed.”

  The Custodian smiled at her, his eyes twinkling faintly, and gestured to the arch.

  “The second test awaits, Princess.”

  Aylar once more squared her shoulders, and with a final glance at her companions—lingering on Leonidas—she turned back to the archway and marched through the veil…

  …to open her eyes to flames.

  Aylar’s blade rose instinctively when she did, and she felt her [Radiance Core] roar within her as she braced against the strike of a dark-armored foe, parrying a sudden sword strike and pushing them back with an exertion of her impressively enhanced Strength Attribute. The enemy combatant stumbled and Aylar followed through by instinct, slashing to slap away their sword and reversing her momentum with practiced ease to slice the invader’s head from her shoulders.

  The enemy combatant fell, her body dropping like a stringless puppet, and Aylar took stock.

  Dawnhaven was aflame, its buildings burning and its streets a charnel house of ruin. Screams and the sounds of battle filled the vastness of the greatly expanded city, and Aylar took it all in with anger and sorrow both. She stood at the chokepoint of the final retreat, framed by her companions and her Royal Guard as they held the line against the marauding army that had come to destroy all they had built.

  Cataclysm Mana rocked the area as Leonidas fought nearby, the Archon’s blade a violet blur as it carved through foes like a hot knife through butter. She regretted that their marriage had not survived his family’s fate, but he had remained a stalwart ally through the years of her reign, and yet not even he could protect their home from what had come.

  “{Move!}” he roared in Haelfennyr, directing fleeing citizens past their lines. “{Make for the gate!}”

  Aylar’s eyes searched the rooftops as he commanded the withdrawal, and she spotted Uriel where he was embattled with one of the enemy Paragons, the Dawn-Lord’s Luxan Spear a radiant beacon of light as it clashed with the destructive emerald of one of their foe’s warlords. Aylar grit her teeth at the sight and looked for Ceruviel—spotting the Last Archon of Altera soaring on violet lightning as she brought war to a host of wyvern-mounted warriors, cleaving through them with immense blades of Psi.

  “{Aylar!}” Bardulf called, drawing her attention when he hurried over, his right eye ruined and blood staining his handsome features. “{We need to seal that breach! They’re advancing through the fallen redoubt. If they break our lines, we’ll never complete the evacuation in time.}”

  “{We don’t have the manpower,}” she said with a mix of frustration and anger, looking around at the cleared space. They’d dispatched the last of their immediate foes, ending with the ones she and Leonidas had felled, but there were just so many. “{The Dawnguard and Duskguard are all but annihilated, and what’s left of them and the Army are protecting the citizens as they withdraw to the mountain fortresses. We don’t have anyone to spare, Bardulf.}”

  Yes, you do, a soft voice in her mind said, if you are willing to make the sacrifice.

  Aylar’s eyes swept the area again, and she tightened her jaw. Johnathan and Sonya had already evacuated with the rest, Parnym was exhausted from healing the Royal Guard, and the rest of the Menders had been sent to take care of the citizenry. They were running out of options rapidly.

  She had to protect the people. She had to stall, somehow, long enough for them to get to safety.

  “{I will go,}” she said abruptly. “{I can hold the breach long enough to—}”

  “{It can’t be you, Aylar,}” Synthra said as she approached, towering over everyone present except Leonidas, her draconic bloodline fully awakened and a pair of draconic wings sprouting from her spine. “{You have to lead them to the Fortresses. Without you, we’ll lose the Dominion. You have to survive.}”

  Aylar’s jaw locked at the other woman’s words, and she looked at her former husband’s wife with a mix of dread and anger. Always, Synthra pushed her—always, from the moment she and Leonidas had split apart.

  In some strange way, Aylar knew she did it out of a desire to make her better, but sometimes she hated the woman for it, just as she envied her right to stay in Leonidas’ heart. She’d never wanted to kill his family; the choice had been taken from her. Yet, what was done was done.

  “{What about the reserves?}” Aylar asked finally, glancing back instinctively.

  “{Gone with the populace,}” Synthra said grimly, turning her gaze toward the distant, burning expanse of Dawnhaven. “{We’ve lost, Aylar. All we can do is delay them until the people escape. You have to choose,}” the Sorceress said and turned back to her. “{You’re the Queen, Aylar. Choose.}”

  Aylar closed her eyes at the demand and felt her Core radiating within her with soothing warmth, urging her toward calm as [Heroine’s Will] invoked its power. She knew Synthra was right, damn her, but she didn’t want to make that choice. What could she do? The Royal Guard? No, they were already battered, and even the strongest among them was barely past Ascendant. Contenders and Elites would be nothing compared to what would be thrown at them.

  Leonidas? No, he was too important. She needed him, needed his strength—their nation needed him. He was too valuable to risk.

  Parnym? Exhausted, and needed for the Guard’s survival. That just left…

  Aylar’s eyes opened, and she felt her heart harden in her breast.

  “{Bardulf,}” she said gruffly, looking down at her sword, and then jamming it into its sheath. “{Synthra, I need you both.}”

  To their credit, the pair of them didn’t object; they simply relaxed their tension as if given a reprieve and settled their gazes on her with calm patience. They knew what she would ask of them. They knew what she would demand of them. They stood ready, resolute, unbowed.

  “{As identified, there is a breach that cannot be left unguarded until the evacuation is complete. Ceruviel and Uriel are occupied and cannot be spared, lest the threats they hold at bay ravage the civilians. The Dawnguard and Duskguard are shattered, and the Army is protecting the people. These Royal Guard forces aren’t strong enough to do what is needed. The Kingdom cannot lose the Cataclysm, and it cannot lose its Queen.}”

  Her words were bitter to her own ears, hollow with grief, but a Queen did not have the luxury of regret. The Realm came first, and two lives could buy the safety of tens of thousands when wielded properly. “{The Dawn-Lord and Dusk-Lord will hold against the greater threats. I need the two of you to shore up the breach. Make sure they do not overrun us.}”

  Bardulf nodded faintly at her words and glanced down at his broken left dagger, clicking his tongue and tossing it away as he ripped off a piece of his sleeve and tied it over his destroyed eye.

  “{A fine saga,}” the half-lycanus said with forced lightheartedness, “{I will enjoy telling it when all is done.}”

  Aylar nodded to him, holding back her grief, and turned to Synthra.

  The Sorceress regarded her evenly, golden eyes resolved, and stepped forward. A moment passed between them, and suddenly they embraced, crushing into one another’s arms and sharing a final, lingering kiss as their history unfolded before them. Once, they had been as close as any pairing. Once, they had known love. No more, but the memory lingered, and Aylar savored the texture of woodsmoke and vanilla as she tasted the Sorceress’ heat.

  For a moment, one final, precious moment, the world faded away.

  They were just girls again, young and in love.

  And then, with heat and grief, reality asserted itself once more.

  When they parted, Synthra brushed a clawed finger along her cheek and smiled.

  “{Take care of my daughter, Aylar,}” she said simply, her voice calm.

  “{Like she were my own,}” Aylar promised, and saluted fist-to-heart. “{Hold. Hold until we are clear, and then join us. You—You know the way.}”

  Synthra and Bardulf nodded their understanding, and the Shadowblade casually strode over to the Sorceress, grinning at her. “{Give me a lift?}”

  Synthra snorted at him and held out a hand.

  “{I’ll drop you if you sing,}” she warned.

  Bardulf laughed at her, and with a final look at Aylar, the Sorceress launched herself upward, bearing Bardulf in a clawed hand as they surged away toward the breach.

  “{Parnym, ready the Guard to move. We have to retreat and link up with—}”

  Her voice cut out as a crack of displacement announced Leonidas’ arrival, his body essentially materializing in a flash-boom of scarlet energy. He was so damned fast.

  “{Aylar, where are Bardulf and Synthra going?}” he demanded. “{They’re heading toward the breach.}”

  Synthra drew her gaze to Leonidas when he spoke, and her eyes searched his menacing helmet, seeking the radiant blue that lurked within—to no avail.

  His body recoiled after a moment, and she knew he’d read her thoughts. Without a word, the Archon turned, and Aylar acted immediately.

  “{Leonidas, stop!}”

  The Black Knight froze, his right hand twitching.

  “{You can’t go to them, Leonidas. They have to do this themselves.}”

  A growl emanated from the helmet, and he turned back to her.

  “{Aylar, they’ll die.}”

  “{They’ll hold. If anyone can hold, it’s—}”

  “{They’re going to DIE!}”

  “{This is how it has to be Leonidas. We have no one else,}” Aylar said while looking at the exhausted Mender and Royal Guard. “{We cannot spare anyone else.}”

  “{You can spare me, Aylar. Let me go!}”

  Aylar sucked in a breath through her teeth, and then shook her head, feeling tears stinging at her eyes. “{I cannot, Leonidas. I cannot. Dawnhaven cannot lose you. You are too impor—}”

  “{I DON’T CARE HOW IMPORTANT I AM! SHE’S MY WIFE!}”

  Aylar recoiled at the crack in his voice, the desperation threading through it, and hardened her will against the instinctive hurt—because through her senses she could feel his heart lurch as if something had torn, the Cataclysm Mana in the air turning sharp.

  The woman withdrew as she braced herself.

  The Queen stepped forward and took the burden.

  “{The Grand Duchess will do her duty, Black Knight,}” Aylar said with unyielding authority, her Dominion strength filling her tone, “{as we will in turn. Your daughter needs you. Our son needs you. This Kingdom needs you.}”

  “{Aylar—}”

  “{Enough,}” she said as her voice cracked, and she angrily wiped away her tears. “{Enough, Leonidas. It’s done. We’re joining the others. A Kingdom cannot survive without its leaders, and whether you like it or not, Archon, you may have rejected the Crown—but you remain an Archon. Do your} fucking {duty.}”

  Leonidas turned back toward where Synthra had gone after she spoke, and his fist tightened around his blade. Aylar’s heart broke as she saw him resolve himself to never seeing his wife again, and then Leonidas—her once-love, her once-King—turned and stormed away, bellowing for the Royal Guard to get moving as he marched after the fleeing populace.

  Aylar turned her gaze back toward her inferno, and she finally let her tears flow.

  I’m sorry, she said to the explosions that marked Synthra already engaged in her final fight. I’m so sorry, my friends.

  She closed her eyes then, and turned, preparing to follow Leonidas…

  …and awoke within the chamber of arches to the sound of weeping.

  After a moment, distantly, she realized it was herself.

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